The Hat of Regret
by rhead-a-holyc
Summary: He'd never thought of the negative consequences of his job before, never having questioned the Founder's decision. But even geniuses could be wrong.


There was blood on his hands.

He didn't doubt that much in the slightest; he was too deeply embroiled in the death and anger, too much to blame for it, to even dare argue innocence—even contemplating it dulled his actions in shaping the war. He did not possess the sly tongue that could convince even _himself_ that all he had done was his job. He was not Slytherin, and would never be. Tricks and deception had never been his forte; his job had required him to be honest and fair… neither of which had served him well in the end, no matter how much he still respected Helga.

For all his significant—a truly _magnificent_ —number of years within the walls of Hogwarts, he would never have believed that he would eventually lie staring up at a ceiling he never knew he could hate more than he did now, when it held him in a vice, immobile and ignored like one of the dying around him. He was frayed around the edges, feeling both _too much_ and nothing at all, while the shock of realisation saturated his system.

This was it, then. This was where he would burn to death by some wayward spell, or crushed completely by the falling stone that had once been part of the protection of Hogwarts, part of the proud Hogwarts herself.

Then, he was picked up—suddenly and _violently_ —and his angry " _Hey! Don't objectify me!_ " was lost amongst the sounds of desperation and fear. As he gazed down at the remains of the Great Hall, lightly dusted by the Gryffindor who had freed him, he knew that none of the people down there fighting for their lives and what they believed in were anything like the children he had Sorted when they had first been introduced to Hogwarts.

They weren't innocent and naïve anymore. None of them fit in only one house anymore; the the Ravenclaws had lost their blind faith in their books, and the Hufflepuffs had _un_ learned their kindness and honesty, but he couldn't find himself able to mourn the loss.

There was simply no time. Lives were being lost with every passing moment, and he had to do _something_ , but there was nothing he could do alone. Despite his sentience, there was nothing he could physically do to help unless someone asked for it—directly or indirectly, it didn't matter. Their magic asked, and he answered, but someone needed to ask.

The request he was waiting for came only after the Gryffindor—the very same boy who had begged to be Sorted into Hufflepuff years ago—placed him on his head to give himself more space to manoeuvre around while duelling and using every bit of Herbology the boy knew to get the upper hand on his opponents. It was there that he could find a desire to answer, and the strength of Longbottom's resolve to protect Hogwarts only reinforced his decision of Sorting this boy into Gryffindor.

He knew exactly what the Gryffindor needed, and with the bravery the boy showed, Longbottom deserved it, just as Potter had once. As he slid off the boy's matted hair in one of the few quiet corridors, the Sword of Gryffindor landed on the floor next to him with a clatter. The boy looked stunned, glancing between him and the sword, but it was obvious what needed to be done—if not at the current moment, then it would be soon.

It was the only way to completely defeat Slytherin's heir—the one person's Sorting he regretted above all others. His honesty and fairness should have been abandoned in that boy's case, and he had been torn, ignoring his gut feeling to give the boy the best possible chance with his future. It would have taken time, but Gryffindor, or even Ravenclaw, would have changed that young man's path in a way Slytherin never had.

Hope had failed him the first time, and he had made sure not to repeat the same mistake with the boy that had arrived so similar to Tom Riddle. Harry Potter would have turned out like Tom Riddle had he not allowed the boy to choose Gryffindor; there was no doubt about that. Slytherin would have suited him, but there would have been no hope for the Wizarding World had the two of them joined forces—had the two of them reached their true capacity together.

He wondered what the Wizarding World would be like if there were no Hogwarts Houses… It would be a far cry better, he believed, than it was now. The mess that had been created by the Founder's differing views, and the desire to uphold tradition while everything around them changed, had been the foundation to this war. Had he stopped—had he _refused_ —to continue this charade, he could have prevented the insanity. For a being as old as him, he truly was a naïve old hat.

Whatever happened after this, whether he survived or not, he knew one thing: he would never Sort another student. It had been the separation and the lines drawn in the sand that had caused this.

The wizards could argue that it was their prejudices and their differences, but the impressionable children he had met as they first walked into the castle held few prejudices. They had known no better until they were separated, until _he_ pointed their differences out and made the differences seem larger than they really were.

The current bloodshed was his fault, but if he survived, he would do his _damnest_ to ensure the house unity that had once only been words in a song.

Perhaps then, eventually when the dust settled to reveal what he hoped to be an utopia, he would be able to forgive himself.

(Even if he was still as naïve and foolish as he always had been.)

…oOo…

 **Written for Quidditch League Semi-final Round: Wigtown Wanderers: The Sorting Hat**

 **Prompts: (word) sly; (restriction) No using '?' ; (dialogue) "Hey! Don't objectify me!"**

 **AN: Sorry, I couldn't help the Harry/Voldemort implication there :P**


End file.
